From the proboscis-shaped, nose-mounted turret of the 747-400 freighter, an invisible beam of energy crosses the brisk Antarctic sky at the speed of light—
—planting its lethal, scorching kiss upon the graphite epoxy hull of the first Trident II (D5) nuclear missile.
The laser beam instantly melts a hole in the projectile’s thin skin, igniting the SLBM’s solid rocket fuel into a blazing fireball. The mangled hunk of metal, circuitry, and plutonium lofts high in incandescent splendor before dropping harmless from the sky.
“Sir, Romeo-1 is dead. Targeting Romeo-2.”
General Jackson expels a nerve-induced, gut-wrenching roar of approval, thrusting his casted fists high in the air as the YAL-1A spits out seven more beams, sending seven more fireballs, fireworks, and incandescent shards plummeting toward the frozen Antarctic sea.
Aboard the USS Virginia
The USS Virginia (SSN-774) and her sister ships, USS Texas (SSN-775), and USS Hawaii (SSN-776) represent the United States Navy’s newest class of attack subs, each of these 1.6-billion-dollar stealth ships producing only 10 percent of the noise of Los Angeles-class workhorse vessels like the Scranton.
Much of the Virginia-class’s technology was ultimately incorporated into the design of the Goliath. From her pump-jet propulsor engine and advanced stealth technology to her Photonics Mast, (replacing the periscope), the Virginia-class was intended to be the last of the Navy’s manned attack subs, giving way to unmanned, remotely operated vessels like the Goliath. As a first step in reducing the number of crewmen required on board, the Virginia was outfitted with more computing power than all sixty-five Los Angeles-class and Seawolf-class attack submarines combined. Only the Goliath and Colossus possess more computing power, with Sorceress’s nanotechnology and biochemical brain altering the playing field, dwarfing even its own sister ship’s advanced computing capabilities by an unfathomable million to one.
Unlike the Colossus, the Virginia’s control room is an airy, wide-open, brightly lit attack center, its layout dominated by rows of large-screen color displays and high-tech workstations. Housed along the portside wall is a row of seven immense sonar stations sporting advanced ergonomic consoles. At the center of the compartment is a computerized navigation station, replacing the two antiquated-looking tables and charts still used on board Los Angeles-class attack subs like the Scranton. Ahead, mounted catercorner, are two big screens providing a periscopeless view of the east and west horizons. Two ship control stations are located between these forward screens, with Combat Control on the starboard wall, along with ESM and the sub’s radio room.
Emotions on board the USS Virginia are running high, every submariner’s heart racing, every man’s blood pressure soaring as their CO, Captain Christopher Parker, addresses them over the 1- MC.
“NORAD confirms the eight SLBM’s were Trident II (D5) nuclear missiles. Although the attempt failed, we clearly got lucky. The laser plane can only acquire and track missiles in their boost phase, and has a maximum range of three hundred miles. Naval Intelligence reports the Goliath has at least eight more Tridents on board that we know of. They believe, as do I, that Simon Covah will head for open waters in an attempt to lose the Laser Plane before launching his next volley of missiles. Virginia is the only vessel preventing Covah’s escape to the east. If he makes it past us, then it may be impossible for the Navy to relocate the Goliath again. Should Covah launch in the North Atlantic, those Tridents could strike any city in the continental United States. Our orders, gentlemen, are to make sure that doesn’t happen.” 11
Grunts from the crew. Parker’s men are primed for battle, exuding an adrenaline-enhanced air of confidence bordering on arrogance. Despite Goliath’s advantages, to the Virginia’s officers and crew, their ship is the top predator in the ocean, a stealthy attack sub excelling in every phase of combat, maintaining an acoustic sensor suite second to none. Unlike its older cousin, the Scranton, the Virginia can “see” its enemy when it moves through the labyrinth of ice and sea that has become the Antarctic. Like the Goliath, the Virginia possesses antitorpedo torpedoes to defend itself, and the weaponry to hunt and kill any adversary on the open seas.
Unlike Goliath, Virginia has a crew seasoned for battle.
Sonar technician Rob Ayres is in an almost-zenlike state of concentration as he listens to the acoustic disturbance along the frozen surface. “Conn, sonar, Skipper, I’ve got a fix on the vessel that just launched those missiles. Designating Sierra-1, bearing two-five-zero, range thirty-seven miles.”
“Chief, plot an intercept course.” Captain Parker turns to Commander Jay Darr, his second-in-command. “XO, take us to battle stations.”
“Aye, sir.” Darr calls out over the 1-MC. “Battle stations, battle stations. WEPS, conn, verify ADCAP torpedoes in tubes one and two. Antitorpedo torpedoes tubes in tubes three and four.”
“Conn, weapons, torpedoes loaded and ready, sir.”
Additional crewmen rush into the conn, taking their battle stations. The temperature in the chamber rises noticeably, as the cool air mixes with human perspiration, the crew working, waiting, sweating, and praying as the Virginia races beneath the frozen Antarctic sea to intercept the Goliath.
“A man sooner or later discovers that he is the master-gardener of his soul, the director of his life.”
—James Allen
“I didn’t want to hurt them, I only wanted to kill them.”
—David Berkowitz, a.k.a. “The Son of Sam,” who shot fourteen people in New York from 1975 to 1977
CHAPTER 32
Aboard the Goliath
Gunnar regrips the supporting crossbar of the bed frame and gives it a final twist, tearing the three-foot section of metal loose.
Rocky hands him the vinyl casing she has torn off the mattress.
Wrapping one end of the bar with the material, Gunnar climbs up on the desk, his wounded leg throbbing. With both hands, he smashes the iron pipe as hard as he can against the back of the sensor orb, which is mounted to the ceiling.
Sparks fly. Gunnar takes two more whacks, leaving the dented electronic eyeball hanging by wires. He strikes it again, sending the device flying across the room.
Using the jagged end of the pipe, he pries the sensor’s damaged support plate away from the ceiling, then reaches up inside the hole and retracts several live wires, careful to grip them only by their insulation.
“Watch it,” Rocky warns. “Don’t let your handcuffs touch those wires.”
“I know, I know. Just take the bar and get ready.” Holding the positive wires in his left hand, the negative in
